Foundations
by BlueMary J. Royard
Summary: 'He blinked, and then one single image reached his retina: golden strands, an ageless face, two blue shards that had been both horror and consolation during the past nights. He curved his lips into a bitter smile, or maybe he only tried to do that. "I knew I would go to hell," he murmured, with the little breath he had left.' Sequel to Debris. Dan/Adrian slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi, glad you stopped by! I'm a huge fan of Watchmen and of the Dan/Adrian pairing from the movie, and this fic is my biggest contribution to those wonderful characters. The story is completed, but it's in my mother language, so I still have to translate it to English. I'll try to update at least once a week. Also, it's unbetaed, so I apologize in advance for the mistakes that there will surely be there. That said, any comments or feedbacks is very welcome and appreciated. I hope you'll like this story of mine. Enjoy your reading!_

 _Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, also there's Adrian, so you know what to expect from him._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Never compromise**

An agile movement of his arm to throw the man over his own shoulders, his hips giving the necessary strength, the thud of a body falling deadweight on the road, where it remained without moving. Everything had happened in a few seconds and now Dan was standing straight again, ready to face another assailant.

He was breathing faster than usual, more because of the adrenalin than because of the effort, while his opponents, or at least the ones still conscious and capable of moving, were panting in fear and seemed like they had lost the arrogance they had showed towards him at the beginning.

They were some cheap criminals: pushers, pimps, the invisible scum that infested the streets at night. Nothing too dangerous.

A knife appeared at the edge of his sight. He crouched down and stretched his right leg, making the armed man trip. A hard kick at his face, strong enough to break his nose, made him scream hoarsely, but another kick at his solar plexus silenced him.

Without a moment of hesitation, Dan turned around, looking for the next opponent, but no one seemed keen on attacking him. His eyes caught two men still standing, while three of them were already unconscious or too hurt to fight again. The ease with which he had disposed of over half of them had made the others cautious, since now they seemed more prone to stay away from him than to go into offensive.

"So, are you gonna fight me or run away?" he provoked them.

The reaction was instantaneous: the biggest one attacked him faster than he expected, while the other one pulled out a switchblade and then sprang to his left, in the attempt to attack him from behind his back. He didn't give him the opportunity, since he kicked the unarmed one, sending him against his companion in one single move. While the man with the knife rolled on the ground, dizzy from the hit, he waited for the other to regain his feet.

"You fucking son of a bitch. I'm gonna kill you!" the criminal growled, accompanying his threat with a frontal attack.

 _Too slow._

He used his forearm to divert the fist and then he hit him fully in the face, once, twice, a third time, feeling his knuckles hurting even through the protective gauntlets. His aggressor had lost a good numbers of his teeth when he fell down, too stunned to even react.

The man with the knife was on his feet again and launched himself in an attack, but Dan was waiting for him: he avoided the blade without any actual efforts, then he slammed him against the wall of the closest building. Without giving him any time to recover, he grabbed his hand, forcing him to let the knife go, then he twisted his arm until he heard it snap. Before the man could scream, he punched him on his side, aiming at his kidneys at full force. A moment later, the criminal was on the ground, unconscious.

Taking deep breaths, Dan looked around. There were five bloodied bodies on the ground, while he was the only one standing.

For the last few days, his patrols had been more violent than usual. He didn't kill criminals, he still hadn't come this far and he hoped he never would, but the snap of the bones breaking under his hits had been a familiar sound that accompanied most of his nights.

His lips curved into a smile.

Rorschach would have been proud of him.

He didn't bother tying up the men on the ground: knowing how much hurt they were, he doubted they would be able to stand in a short time. He made an anonymous call to the police, instead, and then he started walking towards the place he had left Archie.

He hadn't covered half a mile when a group of people caught his attention.

They seemed more prepared than the criminals he had just defeated: iron bars, knives, brass knuckles... Not that it would make a difference, against him. With Rorschach he had destroyed much more dangerous gangs and even since he had been patrolling alone he had found himself in worse situations.

He attacked without any plans, letting his experience guide him in a whirl of kicks, punches and parries. His reflexes allowed him to avoid most of the hits and the few that reached him were softened by his costume. In a few minutes he had already knocked out two men and was taking care of the third, not caring about the pain due to the few hits he hadn't been able to avoid. He didn't have Rorschach's stoicism, but a high pain tolerance was an unavoidable consequence of the years spent as a vigilante.

He disarmed the closest man elbowing him in the face, then he avoided a punch, hit another man and dodged again, without stopping.

He liked fighting, he liked the adrenalin flowing in his veins, making him a being who belonged to the night, lethal and elusive. He liked his body moving out of instinct, in a reality made of thuds, screams, sweat and blood, where there wasn't room for thoughts.

" _Why don't you let yourself go, Dan?"_

He gritted his teeth, looking for another opponent. He had been trying to silence that voice for two weeks, now, fighting against the memories of that night he still hadn't been able to accept.

 _Gentle fingers on his face, the same fingers that had caused death for fifteen millions of people._

He punched the last man standing with more strength than it was necessary and he didn't pull back even when he heard the snap of a rib.

 _Warmth, kindness, acceptance, a reassuring hug that had made him feel like he wasn't alone in a world where he didn't belong._

It was his instinct that made him let the criminal go to turn around abruptly, but when he realized that one of the men had just pretended to be unconscious it was already too late. With an incredulous gaze, he recognized the handle of the knife sticking out of his own stomach. He wasn't feeling any pain, he wasn't feeling anything at all.

"Die, you fucking bastard!"

The man turned the knife in the wound and the blade pierced deeper into his flesh, accompanied by those words, while the criminal was looking at him with a triumphant grin.

Dan managed to punch him in the temple, a hit strong enough to knock him out. Then the pain arrived, a piercing, red hot agony that had him bend over with a pant, while his stomach seemed like it was trying to escape from his mouth.

He gaped, looking for air even though his lungs weren't functioning anymore, and everything was burning, everything was pain.

He had been stupid, too focused on an unharmed enemy to care about the other criminals. A newbie mistake, unforgivable.

Trying to ignore what was about to do, he grabbed the knife. Then, he pulled it out from his stomach.

Pain flared with a new intensity, blinding him. He felt his blood oozing from the wound, there was a black veil in front of his eyes and for a moment his mind faltered.

 _Breathe. Come on! Just breathe._

He blinked, and his sight was so blurred it seemed he didn't have his night goggles on, but he couldn't faint. Even if the police found him before some criminals did, he couldn't expect any leniency: the Keen Act was still effective, even after the destruction of New York, and the chaos of the first few months had lessened, by now, allowing the police forces to reorganize themselves.

He gagged, but he couldn't puke, not with that wound. He struggled to suppress the nausea, then he tried to straighten his back.

The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing foreign. If he managed to arrive home, everything would be okay again. The problem was arriving there.

His costume was already drenched in his blood. He tried to stop the bleeding by pressing his hand on the wound, limping towards the safety of his home. Only his will was keeping him going, an obsessive need to find a safe place. Once in his bathroom, he would try to take care of the wound and in the worst case scenario he would call an hospital pretending to have been assaulted. He knew he could play the role of the shy and unharmed Sam Hollis in a convincing way: an ornithologist who lived in a respectable neighborhood, who could never _ever_ be associated to Night Owl. It would be easy to pretend that, maybe because it wasn't really a pretending but half of his life.

He muffled a whimper when another wave of pain assaulted all of his nerves.

If Rorschach had been there, none of that would have happened.

Rorschach would have watched his back.

That was why a partner was essential.

He repressed the nostalgia for the past with a grimace, focusing only on the task of keep walking until he finally saw his home.

 _Almost there._

He didn't have the lucidity to adopt the usual safety measures, but what was left of his senses gave him the impression of being alone. He could only hope he hadn't been followed.

He entered his house from the back door, he was too hurt and exhausted to use the underground entrance. He had just opened the cabinet in the bathroom to take the medikit, when he heard a rumor at his back.

"Freeze!" an unfamiliar voice ordered, too soon and too close.

He tensed, looking for a moment at the scalpel that was among the first aid supplies, just a few inches away from his fingers.

"Turn around slowly and keep your hands in the air."

He obeyed only partially, turning to face the stranger but keeping his hands against the wound. He was curios to see the faces of who had been so lucky to find him when he was in a bad shape. There were two of them, both armed, with the guns aiming to his chest. A dangerous situation even if he hadn't been wounded. As hurt as he was, trying to fight would be a suicide.

 _Never compromise,_ a hissing voice echoed inside his mind, so low and familiar he almost smiled.

And then he attacked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Sliding away**

"Fuck, Davis! We wanted to arrest him, not to shoot him down."

The kid swallowed and lowered his gun. He had fired three times and now he couldn't divert his eyes from the unmoving body of Nite Owl.

"I... I reacted out of instinct."

Rick sighed and shook his head.

Davis was a good cop, but he was too young and lacked experience on the field. He had been his partner for two months by now and without having taken part to any actual shootings it wasn't surprising that he had lost his cold blood when the vigilante had attacked him. Even while panicking, he had aimed well, though: all three shots had reached the masked man in the chest.

Rick put his gun back to its holster and gestured Davis to do the same. With three bullets in his chest, not even Nite Owl could survive. If he hadn't died instantly, he would be dead soon.

He took out the radio.

"Here patrol twelve, we just broke into the house of the vigilante known as Nite Owl. The man resisted the arrest and attacked us, forcing us to shoot him down. The address is 221 Baker Street. I need reinforcements and an ambulance, even if I fear they won't be necessary anymore."

Once the communication was over, he turned to Davis, who was still staring at the body at his feet.

"You think I really killed him?"

There was a note of fear in his voice, and Rick realized that Nite Owl was probably the first death of his carrier.

"Check his pulse."

He watched him kneeling next to the body, ready to intervene if the vigilante moved, but while Davis' fingers wander on the man's wrist and neck, nothing made him suppose that Nite Owl was something different than a corpse.

Even that kind of anachronistic masked hero was human, after all.

He had first heard about him several years before, when Nite Owl was one among five of six other vigilantes who were acting in New York and he had never understood what pushed those people to defy the night, claiming the power that belonged to cops alone. He could respect their courage, but civilians had no rights to act outside the law. Sure, in the past and in the last few months Nite Owl had helped cleaning the streets from some criminals, but he was still an outlaw himself. And outlaws got arrested.

That was why he hadn't showed any hesitations when he had caught a glimpse of him limping away in an alley. Instead of facing him, he had preferred being cautious, so he had followed him to his house, together with Davis.

In a normal situation he would never break through without reinforcements, especially not while he was with such a young and inexperienced colleague, but he had noticed that Nite Owl was badly hurt, given how much he staggered. That, and the chance of arresting the infamous vigilante had convinced him to act.

He massaged his temples, trying to smother a rising headache.

A great idea, indeed. To follow his ambitions, to follow his instinct... and now he was with a twenty years old partner that maybe had just killed his first suspect and a probably dead vigilante.

"Well?" he asked, when he realized that several seconds had passed without Davis telling him anything.

The kid shrugged.

"I can't feel anything, the costume's too thick," he replied, then his hands moved from the neck to Nite Owl's cowl.

"What are you doing?" Rick asked him, arching one eyebrow.

The kid gave him a sheepish smile.

"Come on, Rick. Aren't you curios to see his face?"

"Don't be a child. We already caught him, we know where he lives. In a couple of hours, every newscast will show his face and his identity."

Davis' smile disappeared behind a resented expression.

"You're not funny at all," he muttered, but pulled back his hand.

What should have been a corpse suddenly sprang into motion. One of his arms hit Davis on the cheekbone, making him fall down, then Nite Owl straddled him with a growl, seeming more like a wounded beast than a human being. The time of two quick punches to the jaw, and Davis stopped moving.

Shocked by the whole thing – _Nite Owl was dead, how could he be moving now?_ – Rick hesitated a moment of too many. When he managed to pull out his gun, Nite Owl was already on his feet and there was a vase flying towards him. He used his free arm to protect his face and felt a sharp pain the moment the vase went into pieces against his skin. When he opened his eyes again, Nite Owl was already attacking him with an improvised weapon.

 _How could he stand, after he had been shot three times at close range?_

He looked at the wooden owl that was just about to hit his head, realizing it was over. While being so close to the most wanted man of New York, he didn't see his eyes, or the expression under the cowl, but only the three holes on his chest, with the final part of the bullets sticking out from the costume.

 _Kevlar,_ he realized, just a moment before the heavy wooden owl hit his temple, throwing him into a black abyss.

* * *

He felt cold and the blood kept pouring through his fingers despite the pressure he was applying to the wound.

The pain was excruciating, so intense it made him shiver, a never ending agony that stole his breath away. Yet, his mind was lucid, thoughts as vivid as they could ever be.

He was dying, he knew that already, but waiting for his own death while he was still so aware of it, without having the possibility of doing anything to avoid it, was difficult to accept. He would rather have a quicker death, like what had happened to Rorschach. Someone could thought his friend had been crazy, the media surely did, but to him he was a man worthy of admiration, given his will to follow his principles to his death.

 _Not like him._

What a fool. Saving himself from Armageddon, surviving Karnak and Adrian, only to die like that, in an abandoned tunnel of the old subway, killed by some nameless lowlife. No super villains, no epic fights, just a moment of distraction that had cost him too much. But the life of vigilantes wasn't a compassionate one and the mistakes were always payed in the most painful way.

Who knew if someone would miss him, or at least notice he was gone.

The waitress from the coffee bar where he used to have breakfast almost every day, maybe. It would be one less tip, after all. He wanted to believe that Laurie would mourn him, but he wasn't even sure she would ever know he died. Nite Owl's absence could also mean he retired, like he had already done years before.

Adrian would know.

He would probably be the only one, and that was both a consolation and a source of turmoil, because his death wouldn't completely be ignored, but the only one who knew would be the man that had almost shattered his life.

He pursed his lips like he had to face another pang of pain, but he was too weak to repress the memories that in the past two weeks he had refused with all his might.

He still hadn't come to terms with their last meeting. He didn't know what he felt about him anymore – how much he had to hate himself for that night. But he didn't want the only trace of his death to be in Adrian Veidt's thoughts.

With fingers stained with his own blood, he sketched the outline of an owl on the cold wall. Despite his trembling hand, he found it a good work. Adding Rorschach's signature, those two symmetrical 'r' with an ink stain underneath, seemed to him the right completion of his epitaph.

He closed his eyes, fear sliding away together with pain and his own consciousness. There would never be a third Nite Owl, there weren't any boys with passion for owls, lacking social skills and great ideals of heroism in a too childish heart, and maybe it was better that way.

A boy who never desired to become a vigilante had to be a happy boy.

The hand he had kept pressed against his wound fall lifelessly to the ground, but the shadow of a smiled flickered on his lips.

 _Here dies Nite Owl._


	3. Chapter 3

_This time the chapter is betaed, huge thanks to Lucky_Lucy for her help._

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Awakening**

"Last minute news: the masked vigilante known as Nite Owl, now identified as Sam Hollis, was surprised by two agents that followed him up to his house. Hollis, who was already wounded from a previous scuffle against some criminals, managed to escape after assaulting the two agents, who only reported some minor wounds. Now a Special Force team is still patrolling the area, looking for his hideout. The Police hope to arrest him but say it now appears more likely they will just retrieve his body, since the agents reported his condition to be very bad and everything on the scene suggests a significant blood loss..."

There were only a couple hundred people watching the news at that unholy hour, before dawn. Barely a half of them were actually paying attention to it. Among those, only a few had associated the report to the masked vigilante with the black costume and the cape that had been patrolling the city at night for the last months. And only two of them knew that his real name wasn't Sam Hollis.

* * *

 _He immediately knew that he wasn't lying on his bed._

 _There was a linger warm sensation just an inch from his body that whispered about a night for once not in loneliness, there was the scent of another person in the bedsheets, familiar and foreign at the same time, and even as drowsy as he was, he was suddenly, creepily aware of being naked._

 _He opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times to make them adjust to the light in the room. Even without glasses he recognized the looks of an expensive hotel room, with purple curtains and a purple blanket. He sat up, lowering his eyes. The cushion was of the same color and with all that purple surrounding him he remembered everything._

 _He tensed, forgetting how to breathe – he wasn't able to breathe anymore, now that he was drowning in the knowledge of what had happened._

 _Then everything disappeared._

 _His glasses were on the bedside table and he put them on hurriedly, trying to ignore his weakness, his horror, his nausea – there was blood on his hands and on the sheets – because he needed to disappear. Even if he was alone in the room, he could hear the shower in the bathroom nearby, too real a sign of where the man he had spent the night with was._

 _His throat felt constricted at that thought._

 _He had to go without being seen, before he met Adrian's eyes, before facing what he wasn't ready to face. At home, while busy working on Archie, screwdriver in hand, or outside, while patrolling the streets as Nite Owl, maybe he would be able to analyze last night without hoping he could cut his own head open and throw those memories away – and maybe even a considerable part of his life too._

 _He stood up and immediately he felt a stab of pain at his wounded leg. With a glance he reassured himself that the wound was still closed, all the stitches still holding, and then a low throb made him focus his attention on his scraped knuckles. He brushed them with his thumb, feeling the dried blood. They hurt, in a familiar way that reminded him of his first years as a vigilante, when he happened to find himself in a brawl without the right protections or when he trained with Rorschach barehanded. And if he was feeling the consequences of his own punches, Adrian had to feel worse... provided he was able to feel pain at all._

 _He rejected that thought before he could understand if it made him feel more amused or nauseated. He put on his clothes, instead, trying to not make a noise._

" _If you would like to have a shower, there are clean towels in the bathroom," a voice from behind his back commented, freezing him on the spot._

 _With his heart hammering in his chest and the silent prayer to suddenly vanish from sight echoing in his mind, Dan forced himself to turn around. Adrian stood at a safe distance, if there even was one. He was naked, expect for the towel around his hips, and his hair was still wet and messier than he had even seen it. His face was bruised, as were his wrists and neck, and Dan tried not to focus on the consequences of his rage. His expression was that unreadable mask that gave Dan the impression he was being studied like he was an experiment, two shards of blue that caught everything and let nothing transpire._

 _When he realized Adrian was still waiting for an answer, he shook his head._

 _He felt sticky and covered in sweat. In any other situation, he would have gladly accepted the offer of a shower, but even the thought of spending any more time in Ozymandias' presence made him feel like he couldn't breathe. He needed to return home, in a safe, familiar place, where he could lick this last wound and discover how deep it was._

 _He swallowed, unable to meet the eyes of a man he once thought a friend and that he didn't know how to classify now. And what was he, to Adrian? A new toy? The parody of a superhero that was even more pathetic for its inability to rebel? A whore with whom he could spend a night?_

 _He felt his cheeks sting because of the shame, while he tried to muffle those thoughts, in vain. Despite his fingers being clumsier than usual, he had finished buttoning up his shirt by now and his jacket was already in his hands, but he still couldn't make himself wear it. The silence was crushing him and he was increasingly aware of the eyes focused on his face as seconds passed by._

 _Even when he strengthened his grip on the jacket, careful to keep the pocket where Rorschach's journal was upright, he stood still, unable to move, because he felt that if he only took a step towards the door, Adrian would be upon him in the blink of an eye to drag him into another bottomless pit, while he was still struggling to reemerge from the last one._

 _He fisted his hands when he saw him come closer. Without really invading his personal space, Adrian placed one hand on his shoulder, a touch no more intimate than one exchanged between two colleagues – between two partners. And yet the contact with his hand renewed the internal struggle between the part of him which was horrified by the confidence and the closeness he had with a hated assassin, and the one which was too weak to refuse the touch and the understanding of one of the very few people who knew the lie that kept the word in peace._

" _Adrian," he swallowed with difficulty, a thousand different words stuck in his throat, while he watched the red, evident bruises on that pale skin. His gaze was impossible to meet, those unreadable blue eyes that had managed to hide his horrifying plan for whole years all the while looking at him with the gentleness that had marked their friendship._

 _(I'm sorry. I hate you. I didn't want to do that. Why did you do that to me? You should die. What is wrong with me?)_

 _Maybe Adrian understood, because he didn't ask him anything, only left his own name echo in the silence, demanded nothing else. He only strengthened his grip for a moment, and it was not a threat, before softening his expression._

" _Dan," he hesitated, like the great Ozymandias was unsure of which words to pronounce. A moment later he let him go. "Take care of yourself."_

 _Dan nodded, more out of instinct than anything._

 _And then he was free to escape, far away from him and from that night that, he already knew it, would haunt him for the next days._

 _That night when he had finally managed to sleep._

* * *

Pain. It was the only thing he felt, as vivid as the world was when he saw it through Nite Owl's goggles. Every single inch of his body was burning: his chest, with every difficult breath he took; his abdomen the source of his agony; his limbs; his head.

To open his eyes felt like allowing the painful throb that was already torturing his temples to pierce his head from side to side.

For a terrifying moment he didn't see anything, only the black veil made of pain and dizziness that surrounded him like a shroud. He blinked, and then one single image got embedded on his retina: golden strands, an ageless face, two blue shards that had been both horror and consolation of his past nights. He curved his lips into a bitter smile, or maybe he only tried to.

"I knew I would go to hell," he murmured, with what little breath he had left.

Then darkness swallowed him whole.


	4. Chapter 4

Many thanks to Lucky_Lucy, who had the patience to correct this chapter! Enjoy your reading^^

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Delirium**

He was weightless, while he floated in an invisible place where thoughts had no meaning, but he still existed. He hadn't noticed it immediately; it was an awareness that had grown in him fragment after fragment, when glimpses of thoughts reached him through the dark shroud that enveloped his consciousness. And during those moments, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, he wondered how much of what went through his head was real.

Sometimes he had brief moments of lucidity, when pain assaulted his nerves with such violence that he regretted not being unconscious anymore; it hurt when he tried to move, it hurt to rebel against the weakness that was clouding his mind, it hurt to breathe. But he still fought, because those perceptions proved that his identity hadn't been swallowed by darkness yet. Other times he only felt pain as his body was burning from the fever and the only thing he was aware of was agony. And then there were the times when his weakness muffled any other sensations, leaving him too exhausted to attempt to move or open his eyes. And he could always feel someone at his side, a reassuring presence that didn't give him any danger vibes.

 _Rorschach._

It was the name that he associated to the warm knowledge of being safe, of having someone watch his back without even needing to ask for it. If for New York Rorschach had been a dangerous psychopath to be feared and jailed, the Terror of the Underworld whom no one dared to face but everyone hated, for him he had been the most important person in his adult life, together with Hollis. As strange and difficult as relating to him could be, Rorschach still was a precious partner with unshakable loyalty. He was the safety of a friend, someone Dan had entrust his life to every night since they had started patrolling together.

It had happened by chance, on a night when the bunch of criminals he was fighting had called for reinforcements. In a few moments, his probability of coming out of it alive from it had become very low and he had realized how foolish and dangerous his dream of playing the masked hero was, how absurd his hopes had been – to remain alive while following a fantasy that should have belonged to a child, not to an adult man. Not even in that moment he had regretted it, though, not even when his blood had flooded his mouth and he had been too hurt and dizzy to avoid the hits.

Then, without any warnings, a man in raincoat and fedora had come to his aid, darting among the criminals like he was a shadow born from night herself. The mask covering his face, when the man had turned to face him, resembled a dark, moving skull in a white background.

He was shorter than Dan had imagined, but he had realized immediately who his unexpected savior was: everyone knew Rorschach, even if the few who met him usually ended up in jail or in the hospital.

There had been no need for talk, they had just found themselves back to back and after a few minutes they had been the only ones who were still conscious.

Only then Dan had allowed himself to slide down to the ground, panting and aching everywhere, now that the adrenalin was fading away. His eyes had never left his savior, though, and as soon as he had regained his breath and assured himself he had all his bones in their place, he had smiled.

" _Thanks for your help."_

Rorschach had continued tying up the criminals, ignoring both his smile and his words.

" _It's not bad to have someone who has your back. We could patrol together, next night, what do you think?"_ Dan had asked him, trying to get a reaction from him.

Rorschach had turned his back to him without even sparing him a glance.

" _Humpf,"_ had been his only answer while walking away. But he hadn't said no and the following night Dan had found the mysterious vigilante waiting for him in that exact spot.

A month later, patrolling together had become a habit.

A year later, Rorschach had started ransacking his house for food.

Two years later, Dan had managed to convince him to stay for the night when when the wounds and the exhaustion were too much even for the most implacable vigilante of New York.

Then one day, while he was shopping choosing Rorschach's favorite food like it was the most normal thing to do, while he was whistling remembering the last fight in which they had managed to knock off a whole gang of fifteen people without suffering any serious injuries, he had realized that it didn't matter if he didn't know his name or his face: his partner – his friend – was the person he trusted the most in the whole world.

The only one who could give him a sense of complete safety.

Now, however, Rorschach was no more.

 _A red stain in the snow, the fedora gliding towards the ground as his only remains, the echo of a scream he hadn't even realized he had released, while desperation tore his chest apart in a more painful way than Adrian's collected revelation of their failure as heroes had done._

Rorschach had died because of Adrian. Because of Jon. Because of him, since he had failed again – _a flabby failure who sits whimpering in his basement._

He hadn't been able to save fifteen millions people.

He hadn't even been able to save the one who had been his best friend.

" _You have never had the world's fate in your hand, Dan. Nor have you had Rorschach's. Believing otherwise is just self-destructive arrogance."_

How much worth could the absolution coming from an assassin retain?

But it didn't really matter, because since Adrian had said those words he had been feeling less guilty. Despite the turmoil still whirling in his chest, he had stopped having nightmares every night, had even managed to sleep without waking up with his throat so dry he wasn't even able to swallow and his back drenched in cold sweat. The images of Rorschach's death, of the destruction of New York and of Ozymandias laughing next to a pile of corpses had visited him less often and if he had to be honest with himself, the one with Ozymandias hadn't visited him at all. He had had a different kind of nightmare, instead, one when he relived the night spent in his company. It was a strange one, not always unpleasant, that truly became a nightmare only when he opened his eyes in the dark and his mind recalled the horror that hadn't been in the dream.

Only once had he woke up screaming, feeling blood on his hands and a last pulse under his fingers. A dream where he was straddling Adrian like in the hotel room, but instead of stopping he kept hitting him with increasing violence, reducing his face to a bloody pulp, before closing his hand around his neck and strengthening his grip until the light disappeared from Adrian's eyes.

The horror he had felt when he had woken up had tormented him for days, like he had really assassinated his former friend with his bare hands. _And Adrian would let him, he hadn't even tried to defend himself, Adrian would have died for real if he hadn't stopped._

He knew he should kill him, he knew it even if he didn't remember the reason, but the image of Adrian's bloodied face and his sad eyes that had focused on his own without any resentment made it impossible for him to breathe.

He tried to move his body, but he was so dizzy and everything was so confused that he wouldn't be surprised to find out he had been reduced to pure mind, with no nerves, flesh or bone anymore.

And now he wasn't able to discern between reality and illusion anymore, he didn't know where he was and his body was burning, he was suffocating, his eyelids were glued together but he desperately wanted to break the veil that was clouding his mind and to stop drowning in the darkness...

He opened his eyes.

The daze that had enveloped his thoughts and sight dissolved, now only his nearsightedness prevented him from putting details into focus, but he didn't need his glasses to recognize the man who sat beside the bed; the same man he had perceived by his side in the few glimpses of lucidity during his delirium and that now seemed to be smiling at him.

"You are not dead, Dan."


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm really sorry for the delay of this update, but I hope you'll like it. Thank you so much, JigokuShoujosRevenge, for your comment! Of course, Dan has his own thoughts about not being dead, you'll know them soon :)_

 _Huge thanks also go to my beta Lucky_Lucy, who really helped me a great deal._

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Still alive**

"You're not dead, Dan."

Evan before he managed to bring his face into focus, the voice revealed the identity of the man at his side: that calm, collected voice devoid of inflections had echoed in his mind more times than he was willing to admit during the previous weeks. He blinked, staring at the figure next to his bed.

Adrian was slightly hunched towards him, in what was probably more a product of gentle consideration for his myopia rather than a sign of worry for his condition. Only after a moment did Dan realize he didn't have his Nite Owl suit on anymore, nor did he have his goggles; and to emphasize his vulnerability, he wasn't wearing any clothes aside from his boxers, the only shield he had left under the sheet.

He barely repressed the urge to move and show his discomfort. The pain that had accompanied his deliriums was still there, but his mind was more lucid, now, and he knew why Adrian had undressed him. He gave the room a quick glance, following the survival instinct that pushed him to retrieve as much information as he could, despite knowing he was in too bad shape to do anything different from lying down on the mattress. Through the veil clouding his sight, he managed to catch glimpses of a bare environment with white walls, some basic furniture and a desk full of objects which were too far away for him to recognize. He saw two doors, one closed and one half open, but no windows, a detail that made him tense. The light stab at his left hand made him lower his gaze. There was an IV attached to his arm and yet he was sure he wasn't in a hospital. It seemed a common room that was being used as an infirmary.

After searching in vain for anything familiar-looking, he brought his attention back to Adrian.

"Where am I?" he murmured, flinching from how rough his own voice sounded. It felt like he had glass shards stuck in his throat.

The man – _the friend? The lover? The enemy?_ – stood up and for a moment Dan thought that he would simply leave without a word, leave him in a foreign place, to face his solitude and doubts alone. Instead, he disappeared behind the half open door, from where after a moment came the sound of a stream of water. When Adrian returned, he was carrying a glass full of water.

"You are safe. Underground in one of my buildings." He offered him the glass, close enough that he could help him drink in case Dan hadn't been able to do it on his own.

With a grimace, Dan managed to stretch out an arm to grab the glass, but he had to give up on the attempt to lift his torso, because at his first try pain exploded in his chest and abdomen, with two particularly vicious stabs just under the heart and next to his bellybutton. He still had to regain his breath when Adrian came closer and helped him to lift his head, and that maybe was a good thing, because he didn't have the lucidity to notice the intimacy of that contact too much.

Only after emptying the glass did he realize how thirsty he was. The fresh water soothing his dry throat was a splendid sensation but it also awoke his need for more of it. Adrian let him lay his head down onto the pillow, he didn't however let go of the glass.

"Another?"

Dan nodded, waiting for him to disappear in the what had to be the bathroom and then to return, while his pain lessened, becoming a more bearable throb, and his brain started functioning again.

He drank the second glass of water pretending he didn't remember the last time Adrian had been so close to him, diverting his eyes from the billionaire's face to focus them on the wall.

He was still dizzy, maybe because of some kind of painkiller, maybe because of the fever. The latter was more likely, judging from how well he could feel pain, but he wasn't as terribly weak as when he had thought he was going to die. He cautiously prodded at his own torso, where everything had become pain at his first attempt to move. There were two distinct bandages, a thinner one that covered a small portion of his chest and a thicker one that covered the wound on his abdomen.

Part of him was impatient to know why he was there, with the man he never expected to see again at his side, but there was still time to ask about that and the instinct born from his years as a vigilante had other priorities.

"How bad is it?"

Adrian sat down again and crossed his legs.

"Quite bad, even if your life is not in danger anymore. The knife pierced your intestine and caused an internal bleeding and the beginning of an infection, but now everything is under control."

He was talking in a reassuring voice, however Dan felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Internal bleeding meant damage to his internal organs, it meant that something important had been compromised; it meant that maybe he wouldn't heal completely.

"You have a couple of cracked ribs, one might actually be broken, due to the bullets' impact against your body," Adrian continued, eyes focused on his face like he was looking for something. "I guess that was the work of the policemen who found you."

Dan nodded out of instinct, his head too heavy for the number of terrified thoughts spinning in it. That explained the pain in his chest, then, and luckily there was no heart- or lung-damage.

"The blood loss has been considerable, you needed several blood transfusions and you are still running a fever, but I can assure you that the worst is over and your wound will heal without any problems." Adrian let out the shadow of a smile and Dan, with his short-sightedness, couldn't say whether it was fake or sincere. "You should recover completely, without any permanent damages."

Dan exhaled what little air he hadn't realized he was holding, feeling only relief. It didn't matter how long it would take for him to heal, how painful his recovery would be, because, after having been sure he would die the mere thought that he would be as well as he had been before, have a perfectly functioning body again, was enough to overwhelm him, annihilating every thought of pain or anxiety.

"How long have I been unconscious?" he asked, as soon as he was sure he could talk without his voice breaking. Suddenly he was exhausted, like the fear for his physical condition had drained all of his energy.

"Five days. I had to keep you in a medically induced coma for the last two days, to prevent you from hurting yourself while you were delirious."

Five days.

Enough time to search his house, to find the underground tunnel of the abandoned subway, to discover Archie.

The thought that the Police had probably seized it hurt him more than the stab wound, but he was too weak and dizzy to come out with a plan and even to ask Adrian for information. Now his head was spinning and exhaustion made even thinking too difficult a task.

He looked at him in silence, fighting against the tiredness and himself, and then he collected enough courage for the question that was lingering among his thoughts since he had recognized him. A question difficult to give voice of, both because of the humiliation and the fear for an answer, but he was too helpless and vulnerable, he needed any information and the illusion of control over his own destiny too much, not to ask him.

"Why did you save me?"

Adrian met his eyes like he had been expecting that question for several minutes now, his still unreadable face showing no emotions.

"Because your survival doesn't hurt me," he replied, with the detached voice that he had always directed to the journalists, even if he was still talking with his German accent. And Dan knew it wasn't an actual answer, but exhaustion had seeped through his mind.

"Adrian..." he weakly protested, his own question still echoing in his mind, because he knew it was important and he needed to understand what his former friend was thinking. But his body was too hurt to allow him to stay awake any longer. While he was still trying to put those blue eyes into focus, his eyelids slid shut close against his will and he fell in a deep slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thank you very much for your feedbacks, I love your comments and they made my day. Also I want to thank my beta Lucky_Lucy for her help and corrections._

 _Guest: It will be happening soon, at least the confrontation. About Archie, that would be more complicated. Thank you for your comment!_

 _blueprintstyles: Thank you so much! I'm really glad you're enjoying their dynamic, even if you're not a fan of the pairing. They're one of my OTPs and I'm trying to make it as plausible as I can._

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Meeting a hero**

Adrian kept his eyes on the unconscious vigilante until he was sure Dan was soundly asleep. Only then did he stand up from the chair and check the IV to see if it would last for the time he was going to be away. His unexpected patient was stable, now, after a couple of hellish days when he had feared he would have seen him die under his hands, as one of the so very few failures that had dared to cross his path; but he was Adrian Veidt, he was Ozymandias and the new Alexander the Great, failure simply wasn't contemplated. Even his most important plan had ended as he had predicted and in the end Dan had resigned himself to become another one of his successes.

Without sparing him another glance, Adrian took the empty glass, washed it in the sink and then filled it by half before placing it back on the bedside table. He returned to the bathroom to clean what was left of the evidence, so he put the empty package of sedatives into his pocket, ignoring the trashcan under the sink. Dan was supposed to sleep for the following five hours, but there was a tiny possibility that he would wake up and discover the package, which would make him less incline to cooperate.

His tired gaze shifted towards his watch. A quarter past eight. He had a half hour to return to his tower, have a rapid debrief with his secretary and to face the first appointment of the day.

He massaged his temples to fight against the exhaustion that had started to wear out against his will. Then he straightened his back, putting on his impassible mask, and exited from the little underground apartment where Ozymandias had been born.

* * *

He thought he would have to wait for at least an hour, maybe two. It only took ten minutes, instead, before the charming, impeccable secretary invited him to the office of the most powerful man in the world; too little time for him to find the composure he needed for that meeting. While he walked through the door with an unsure step that he had never used in the second half of his life, he felt like he was a kid working his first day as a policeman, instead of David Ross, the esteemed Chief of Police of twenty years, who was used to bark orders to his men and to manage everything with an iron fist.

"Good morning, mister Veidt. I hope I haven't bothered you," he greeted him, with the sudden, absurd urge to take an imaginary hat off. But in front of him stood the man who had rebuilt New York almost with his own resources alone; the peace between USA and the Soviet Union had been signed in his presence and he had supported it ever since, accomplishing some diplomatic tasks without stepping outside the boundaries of his role as a civilian. There had been several occasions in which he had been asked to run for Presidency, or to take a more preeminent role in the political life of New York, but Veidt had always refused. David remembered seeing him help soon after Manhattan's attack, digging through the debris, offering money and effort and sweat without even allowing himself to rest, and he was surprise by his lack of arrogance, since he was the man who could have the world in his own hands.

The billionaire flashed him the same white and trustworthy smile that David had seen hundreds of times on the magazines, while pointing to one of the armchairs next to him.

"No bother at all. To what do I owe your visit, Chief Ross?"

David sat down, still a little tense, but Veidt's courtesy was making his awkwardness disappear, replaced by calm admiration.

"I wanted to thank you for your help."

Veidt dismissed his words with a wave of his hand.

"Even if I haven't kept in touch with Nite Owl after I retired, he is still a colleague with whom I enjoyed working. It is my intention to offer all the help I can to find him alive and convince him to turn himself in."

David nodded, even if he still felt he needed to express his gratitude. The men Adrian Veidt had offered the Police had hastened the investigation and thanks to them the attack from a few days before hadn't had casualties. He almost shivered at the thought of how many dead people he would have had to count if a Veidt security guard hadn't noticed the bomb and managed to evacuate the area before the explosion.

David still hadn't identified the culprit, even if it was probably some crazy Nite Owl fan, but at least his squad was unharmed and luckily the bomb had been placed where it hadn't caused catastrophic damage. There had been some repercussions in the underground area, which still hadn't been investigated, but Hollis' house had remained in one piece and, after a few days of interruptions, the searching for the vigilante's corpse had started again, with more determination than before.

"What else did you want to talk about, Chief Ross?"

David focused his attention back on Veidt, forcing his left hand to remain still instead of caressing his beard, a nervous habit he hadn't managed to completely let go. Now that they had exchanged some pleasantries, he couldn't hesitate any longer. He moistened his lips, while looking for the best way to introduce an unpleasant subject to the conversation.

"This afternoon I'm going to attend a press conference with some journalists that are following the case and I know they're the same who have scheduled an interview with you," he started, after he decided to speak clearly.

There were some people who, despite his behavior, accused Veidt of being a man hungry for fame, but he hoped the billionaire could realize the severity of the situation.

"I wanted to ask you to be discrete about the investigation," he continued, noticing the way Veidt was frowning. "If the media knew we're using private agents, who moreover have been hired by an ex vigilante and Nite Owl's former companion, there could be some bad consequences, for the both of us."

Not that he truly thought he could scare him that way: Veidt was too loved, his image as New York savior wouldn't be ruined so easily; however he too had detractors, someone ready to plant the seed of a scandal at the first occasion, and the Police, who wasn't as much appreciated, didn't have his immunity.

"I can understand," the billionaire answered, without giving away anything.

"Can I count on your discretion, then?"

The impassible mask on Veidt's face dissolved into a smile.

"Of course."

Feeling relieved to have obtained the cooperation he wanted, he was about to stand and take his leave, when Veidt placed his elbows on the desk and interlaced the fingers of his hands together, looking at him with an attention that showed how their meeting wasn't over yet.

"May I ask you how the investigation is going, or would it cross some boundaries?"

It was a rhetorical question, given how many boundaries had already been crossed since David had accepted the billionaire's help in the case. Nonetheless, he appreciated the fact that he was politely asking instead of demanding.

"There's nothing new to say. Hollis seems to have disappeared and the lack of a body leaves us with the suspicion that he's still alive. Knowing his identity, though, it won't be too difficult to find his traces, would he resurface somewhere."

Another barely perceivable nod.

"We just have to hope you are right, then."

The strange tone of his comment, more personal and different than the usual, pushed David to take a better look at the billionaire.

"Don't you agree with that?"

For a moment Veidt seemed to hesitate, in a glimpse of humanity that surprised him; then he shook his head.

"I would never interfere with a matter that pertains to the Police. I would regret putting a seed of a doubt where it wasn't needed; I may just be too suspicious."

"No, please, tell me," David asked, before he could process his own words.

Veidt sighed, staring at his hands before lifting his eyes to face him, his stare so full of determination it made how he had managed to create his empire from nothing very clear.

"Chief Ross, are you sure Nite Owl and Sam Hollis are the same person?"

He frowned, dumbfounded. Of all the comments he could expected... The doubt of the vigilante's real identity wasn't even on the list.

"How could they not be? The house where we took him by surprise was owned by Hollis," he replied, a little disappointed.

Veidt leaned back against the backrest of his armchair.

"It doesn't prove that Nite Owl was its rightful owner."

"A house that Nite Owl entered without needing to break into? A house full of owls decorations and ornaments?" he asked, in disbelief, since Veidt was refusing the obvious.

"It wouldn't be the first case of a civilian who has an infatuation towards a vigilante and who's ready to do anything to support him. I had the occasion to meet a few fans of mine myself," Veidt replied with an indulgent smile. "And some of them even possessed a quite accurate replica of my costume."

David's skepticism disappeared in a glimpse of understanding.

"You're suggesting that Hollis could be a Nite Owl supporter?"

"Exactly."

David shook his head, wondering if Veidt's famous smartness was the reason he was looking for the most complicated explanation, refusing the simplest one.

"I don't want to be rude, but don't you think this would be a bit of a stretch?"

"I am just taking into consideration every possible hypothesis," the billionaire replied. "I heard that no one was able to look at Nite Owl's face, so no one knows what he looks like under his mask."

"This is true, but all the evidence is aiming at Hollis." Had he been talking with anyone else, David would have laughed in his face, but Veidt wasn't a fool. He half closed his eyelids while staring at him like he could read his thoughts. "Why are you not convinced?"

"Because I don't think a problem is solved until I find an explanation to each tiniest detail. I understand your reasoning, but I find it suspicious that you haven't found any clues about his double life in Hollis' house."

Meeting the billionaire's blue eyes, David realized he didn't know what to reply.

Nite Owl was famous for his technological gadgets and his ability as an inventor, and yet there was nothing like a lab in Hollis' house. Even his toolbox was totally average. He hadn't found any clue of an activity as a vigilante: no weapons, no handcuffs, no costume, no equipment; only a lot of books about ornithology, several owlish statues and a fridge which proved that his owner preferred buying food to cooking it. Among the little food he had found, there had even been a couple of surprising cans of beans.

Now that he thought about it, Hollis psychic profile didn't seem to correspond to a man who was an athletic and self-confident vigilante, brave enough to face whole gangs of criminals by himself and good enough to survive: the waitress of the coffee shop where Hollis used to have breakfast, one of the few people to have known him, had described him as a shy, anonymous man, with the typical appearances of a librarian, with thick glasses and the awkwardness of those people who felt out of place in every situation.

And there wasn't even the smallest trace of his strange flying ship, or of a place where he could have kept it.

David sighed.

They were tiny details with clashed against his hypothesis. Since they were so little, he had never lingered on them, but now that he was examining them one by one he felt a sense of discomfort crawl along his spine. That case had seemed so easy and clear... and now he found himself forced to admit that there was something amiss.

"And where the hell is Hollis, then?" he barked, immediately regretting how rude he had sounded.

Before he could apologize, Veidt smiled.

"You wouldn't happen to have an interest in ornithology, would you?"

"No, why?"

"This is the month when the _Asio flemmeus_ , a particular specie of owl that lives in the swamps, nests. Considering his hobbies, I wouldn't be surprised if Hollis was camping somewhere several miles away from here."

Plausible but unlikely. He didn't even consider it twice.

"Wouldn't it be too much of a coincidence?" he commented, struggling to refrain from sounding too rough, like he was talking to his men.

The billionaire still showed that patient smile that David didn't know how to interpret.

"From your point of view, it would be indeed."

"And from yours?"

"It depends on how you consider the facts: you think that Nite Owl going to Hollis' house when Hollis is away would be a coincidence. But, if you take the hypothesis of them being two different people for granted, I think that Hollis' absence would have been what prompted Nite Owl to look for safety in his house."

David allowed himself to reflect in silence for a moment.

"We didn't think of that," he finally said, but it made sense, more than he would have liked to admit.

He passed his hand through his hair, feeling tired just thinking he had to study the case from another perspective, but he wasn't resenting the billionaire.

The smartest man in the world, the media called him, and for once it didn't seem they had exaggerated. He stood up; even if he would have wanted to talk to him more, to listen to his opinion about every detail of the case, he knew he had already taken advantage of his patience. He was surprised that their meeting had lasted for so long, since he expected to be dismissed in a few minutes: a man of Veidt's position must have been terribly busy, maybe too much, given the tiredness that flickered through his kind expression.

He stretched his right hand over the desk.

"Thank you for your time."

The billionaire stood up too and shook it, an iron grip reminding David that, behind the neat look of a public persona who seemed to maybe care too much for his appearances, was a man of action, someone who had been patrolling the streets of New York for years.

"You're welcome."

He felt Veidt's stare on his back while the secretary accompanied him to the door. Veidt was more than he expected. He would have liked to have such an admirable mind in the Police, but at the same time he knew he would be wasted as a detective. The billionaire had made quite an impression and David had liked him immediately: a man without any hesitations, who seemed to always be in control but, at the same time, didn't show off. Instead of being a detached, powerful man who only cared about his own interests, he used his resources to help in any way he could.

He smiled while a childish thought crossed his mind, but if heroes had really existed he was sure that Veidt would have been one of them.


End file.
